


Bound to Please

by deletable_bird



Series: What We Do In The Dark [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Alien Biology, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bulges and Nooks, Consensual Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deletable_bird/pseuds/deletable_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Karkat's head’s tilted back, his hair the neatest it ever gets. You can’t see his face from here, but you can imagine his expression: still composed, still calm, his eyes closed and his mouth shut with his breath rising and falling just a little faster than usual, the tiniest of blushes whispering across his freckles. You grin to yourself, taking a silent step forward. You’re going to wreck him until he can’t even speak.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound to Please

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: bondage, orgasm delay/denial. No painplay. For full effect, listen to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gayE-gneACg) while reading.

It was one of the best things to have Karkat spread out in front of you like this, open for anything, sleek as a motherfucking seal and ready for the taking. You’ve seen him in chains, in blindfolds, in lingerie and heels, but seeing him in ropes; goddamn. It’s not a new sight but every time it meets your eyes, you’re at a literal loss for words. Speaking? Brain draws a blank. Too busy absorbing every detail of the angel in front of you.

Soft black cotton traces across his shoulder blades and back, looped around his torso like a second ribcage. His arms are outstretched in an almost unbearably graceful way, the rope outlining them secured to two metal poles on either side of him. His legs and hips are trussed in a similar way, each with twin ropes securing them to the poles, the rope from his abdomen snaking down to his waist and past there to his thighs and calves. His feet are pulled a little more than shoulder-width apart, just wide enough to let you get a glimpse of his dusk-red nook. He’s not wet yet, but you know you can fix that problem without much trouble. The velvet gray of his skin, rubbed just ever-so-faintly ash-pink from the pressure of the knots, is the closest thing you’ve ever seen to any kind of vision. You don’t want him in pain, you just want him unable to get away.

His head’s tilted back, his hair the neatest it ever gets. You can’t see his face from here, but you can imagine his expression: still composed, still calm, his eyes closed and his mouth shut with his breath rising and falling just a little faster than usual, the tiniest of blushes whispering across his freckles. You grin to yourself, taking a silent step forward. You’re going to wreck him until he can’t even speak.

You reach out and smooth a hand over his shoulder. His breath surges and ebbs under your touch, and you press yourself to his back, letting your grip travel down to his upper arms. You’re still clothed, white teeshirt and black jeans, and the electricity of having him naked and vulnerable and all for you makes your stomach do the tango. He pushes back into you, grinding into your dick, and you press your lips to his left shoulder, exhaling sharply against his skin.

Your hands wander from his biceps down over his abdomen, sliding over the ridges of ropes and the smoothness of six keratin plates that line his ribcage, still flexible but far more rigid than the rest of his skin. You grip his hips and press against him. He gasps and his head rolls back to rest on your shoulder as you bend your knees slightly and your dick, still in your jeans but very interested in the proceedings, slots against his nook. You roll your hips, keeping the rhythm like a baseline, and the friction’s delicious, not nearly enough to get you off but perfect for a long, good foreplay session.

You roll along like this, together, riding the train through Horny-Town along a dizzying, perfectly balanced tightrope. His nook is getting gradually wetter, slowly soaking the denim. You hump him like it’s an Olympic Sport and you’re going for gold, keeping the motions of your hips fluid and smooth, never varying from the beat in your head. Every time you alter direction or angle, another bolt of arousal shoots through you, and from Karkat’s gasping breaths and the seemingly random times when his whole body goes tense and then shivery, it’s doing the same for him.

You press a trio of soft, slow kisses to his neck, laving your tongue over baby-soft skin. When you dig your teeth in, knowing just how much pressure you can let him feel, a whimpering gasp escapes from his mouth. You grin; this is exactly why you don’t like gagging him. You sneak your hands around his waist so you can splay them out on his stomach before sliding your palms lower and framing his sheath, teasing just the edge of his nook with your finger and burying your breaths in his neck. He trembles against you.

You take your hands back and strip out of your shirt, undoing your fly but not shedding your jeans yet. Ducking under Karkat’s ropes, you circle around to the front of him and sidle your way into his personal space, keeping eye contact. You left your shades behind a while ago; you like to keep this room mood-lit and sunglasses aren’t good for taking in every detail in a dim space.

His breathing’s exquisitely irregular and his eyes are half-lidded. Just the look in them is silently daring you to come closer, challenging you to go farther than you’ve had before. Even trussed like a Christmas turkey Karkat still has power over you, and you hate it and love it at the same time. You take a decisive step forward and take his face in both hands, letting a silent heartbeat thump by in time with the bass in your head before you kiss him.

His mouth is open and pliant against yours, but he doesn’t let you take control without a fight. The kiss lasts a long time and when you draw away, he sticks his tongue out and dabs it against your lower lip without opening his eyes. His lips fall apart and you seal your mouth on his again with a vicious inhale, nipping his bottom lip and eliciting an almost-mewl. You run your tongue along the tips of his troll teeth, blunt by alien standards but feline by human. His fangs aren’t quite animalistic but they’re definitely there, and sharp, and have broken your skin more than once.

You kiss his mouth, his cheek, the tip of his nose, his chest. He gasps and trembles, unconsciously straining against the ropes as you sink slowly to your knees, never traveling more than a finger’s width without leaving a kiss on his skin, so much warmer than yours you feel like you should be sizzling at every point of contact. You grip his hips and pull him closer to you, bestowing a long, wet kiss at the top of his thigh and tracing a paper-thin line with your tongue down to his bone sheath, which blends seamlessly into his flushed, slick nook.

You press your tongue inside him with a soft breath against silken skin and grip the backs of his thighs hard enough to leave white marks. You can feel him straining, through your fingers and your mouth, and you can taste him already; copper-metallic and comfrey-fresh. He’s not cloying or sweet or even remotely cherry-flavored, but there is a smoke-and-ashes undertone to him that you have an inkling no other troll would taste exactly like.

His hips move as much as they can, making your mouth slide messily through his candy-red troll slick. You flutter your tongue against his nook, and the tip of his bulge slides out, wetting the edges of his bone sheath and searching for relief. You pull back, grinning, and slide two fingers to tickle at the base of his slit. He gasps, shudders, pumps his hips at a perfect counterpoint to the silent tempo in your ears.

You slide your fingers in to the first knuckle, twisting them just inside him, and he lets loose a desperate hah. “Fuck,” he gasps, and you press a single rewarding kiss to the tip of his bulge. It slides a little more from his sheath, stretching the taut skin around his bone bulge and the top half of his nook, sending twin speed drips of genetic material from its base down to pool between your fingers and his nook. You sneak your mouth in there to flicker the tip of your tongue between your fingertips, and he ripples beneath you.

“What were you saying?” you whisper, drawing back to murmur against his hipbone, thrown into sharp black-and-white relief by the faint lights, feeling the nervous flutter of his skin under your lips. He gulps in air and you look up at him through your eyelashes. He meets your gaze, his stomach flexing with every shaky breath, each and every rope and bone with its own shadow and own highlight. He’s a work of art, and you’ve got him at your mercy.

“I want,” he breathes, the muscles of his arms flexing and shifting under the knots. You can tell he wants to bury his fingers in your hair, and the fact that he can’t is intoxicating.

“Want,” you breathe, dragging your lower lip up his stomach as you oh-so-slowly rise to your feet, “what?” You’re pressing kisses everywhere you can reach, savoring his quivering helpless arousal.

“You,” he breathes as you draw level with him again, locking his eyes with yours and not letting you go.

“I’m all yours, baby,” you say, taking a step back and throwing your arms wide with a smirk. He manages a snort of laughter, and you grin and step on the hem of your jeans.

It’s only just about now that you realize you’re just as wanting as Karkat. This entire time you’ve been paying attention to him, his breathing and his heartbeat and his arousal, and you’re just as hard as he is wet. You take two steps forward until you’re standing just a breath away from him, and tilt his face up with two fingers under his chin.

“Tell me,” you whisper, bowing for head to brush your lips against his temple. “How much you want me.”

“Damn it, Dave, just fuck me,” he growls, his upper lip twitching to bare his fangs. You smirk and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Just ‘fuck you’?” you purr, sneaking two fingers down to toy at the base of his bone bulge, sneaking just under the edge of his sheath. You can feel him shudder around your fingers and his bone sheath releases a small tsunami of candy-red. When you pull your hand up, your fingers are soaked to the third knuckle.

“ _Just_ fuck you?” you murmur, touching your fingers to his lower lip. His eyes flutter closed for a moment and he sucks you into his mouth. You can’t tear your eyes away from his lips around you, can’t stop the jolts of arousal that his tongue is sending to your dick. He jerks his head back and your fingers slide in to the base, and your dick wells up with pre-come, drops slicking down to your balls.

He lets your fingers go with a pop and licks the candy-red from the corners of his mouth, never breaking eye contact. You exhale shakily and kiss him, soft and lingering. He leans into you, following your mouth with his even after you pull away. His eyes fall shut and he exhales, long and slow, his chin falling to his chest.

“Please, Dave,” he whispers, his eyes glinting at you from under his fringe. “Please fuck me, now.”

“I think you can ask a little better than that,” you rasp, dropping to your knees again, and wrap a hand around his bulge. He throws his head back, violent, and bucks his hips into your touch, at least as much as he can manage. His bulge wraps around your fingers, desperately searching out contact, and genetic material drips down your wrist, pooling in the crook of your arm and trickling off your elbow.

You don’t jerk him like you’d jerk yourself; instead you bring your other hand up and kind of massage, an alternating pressure that you’ve long since perfected. The absolute slickness of him causes a bit of slide despite your efforts, but even so after a few minutes he’s gasping and mewling and producing pulse after pulse of candy-red. It doesn’t take long before he’s panting a repeated litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ each word carried on a desperate breath. His hips move in time with his his words, in time with your mental tempo. He pants, and the first moan is ripped from his throat when your lips slip over the tip of his bulge.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he wheezes, his voice broken. “I’m going to come, I’m going to—”

You give the tip of his bulge one last lick and pull away. He convulses, his nook fluttering and a gush of genetic material slicking his thighs, so close to an orgasm but not quite there. He spasms, his breath tearing in and out of his lungs.

“Fuck—you,” he gasps, his body rippling. He’s pulling so hard against tautness of his restraints; he’s still tied tight, still upright, but you can feel the desperation in him, the undeniable urge to break free and utterly own you. You bite back a smirk. Tonight, that’s not an option. Tonight, you’re going to deny him until he screams, until he _begs_ , and then you’ll fuck him until he can’t even think.

You wait until his bulge has calmed down and then, only then do you reach out, touching him softly, tenderly. He undulates at your touch, his hips almost immediately starting up a desperate, constrained beat. You clench your hand around him as much as you dare and he stills, biting his bottom lip to the point of blood.

“You don’t come,” you say, your voice as dangerous and sultry as you can make it, “until I say you can.” You think you sound a bit like you’re drunk and a bit like you have a head cold, and the line you just spouted is just about the most cliché in the entire textbook, but Karkat, ever a lover of cheesy romance novels with the worst erotica on the planet, draws in a sharp breath and shudders through his bindings. You smirk and get back to work on his bulge, savoring each and every choked inhale and shudder.

When you stop him seconds before for the second time, he lets loose some kind of tortured noise, not quite a shout but pretty damn close. His bulge lashes against empty air and his nook is grasping for something to clench around, and you have to take a step back and breathe to stop yourself getting dangerously close to coming. He’s tossing his head, fitful and violent, back and forth, his eyes shut tight and his muscles in his arms, his legs, his stomach all straining desperately at the ropes. He spits out a harsh “Fuck—” and bares his teeth, a growl rising up from his ribcage to his lips.

You barely give him a minute to recover before you’re on him again, a hand around his bulge and the other on his jawline, tilting his face up so you can kiss him. You slide his bulge between your fingers, reaching down until you can tease at his nook, and he gasps and curses and you have to let him go again before he spills all over the both of you.

“Please,” he gasps, a whine in his voice, “please fuck me, I need you, I need it—”

You smirk at him and turn on a heel, cat-walking away. He makes a tiny desperate noise and when you throw a glance over your shoulder he’s pulling at his bonds like his life depends on it. His feet tap against the floor, skittering, and he shouts after you. “Dave! Fucking—” He spits and something like a sob is wrenched from his chest.

You pause and look at him; you’re at least ten feet away but the look in his eyes is still stunningly vicious and feral. This is how you wanted him; running on instinct and desperation. You hold the eye contact for a good ten seconds before slowly, _very_ slowly, starting to walk back towards him.

Your feet carry you around one of the metal poles his ropes are tied to and circle you around until you’re inches from him, devouring the sight of him helpless and wanting. You walk your fingers from the outside of his thigh up the curve of his ass until you slide your grip around his hip, pulling him back into you. He heaves a high-pitched gasping keen of relief and you lean forward, nipping at his shoulder, snaking your other hand around to massage the base of his bulge.

“What was that you were asking?” you whisper against his neck. His satin skin flutters under your teeth and he lets a shaky breath out through his teeth.

“I fucking need—I can’t—” he gasps, trying to buck into your touch. Your fingers bite into his waist and he stills, keening. “I need you—please, _please_ —”

“Hmm?” you hum, butterflying kisses up his neck. You take his earlobe delicately between your teeth and tug, your fingertips digging into the root of his bulge, and he throws his head back and screams. He can’t articulate, is barely keeping the vaguest of broken rhythms with his heaving breaths, and you’re so hard it hurts. _Now_ you can fuck him.

You grip yourself at the base and take barely a second to adjust before you grab his hips and pull him back, sharply, sliding inside him in a single slick, violent motion.

Your hearing fuzzes over, static leaking in at the edges, and Karkat lets out a choked gasp of what has got to be pure ecstasy. You take his bulge back in hand, starting up a vicious tempo with your hips, still in sync with the bass pounding away under the static of pure bliss, and pound into him, the root of his bulge thrashing slick and strong in your grip. You squeeze him, hard, and keep the beat demanding but not quite enough to get him coming. He writhes as best he can, tortured noises torn from his throat, almost sobbing.

It’s a painful balance that you keep him at, your hand around his bulge preventing his orgasm but still bottoming out with every pump of your hips, keeping him at the most intense level of arousal that you can. You’re careening closer to coming with every movement and he’s heaving and keening and when you finally snap your hips, slamming into him to the balls and spilling inside him with a huff of breath and a dig of teeth into smoky skin, he lets out a shout that’s desperate, panicking, _scared_.

You tighten your grip around his bulge as you savor every clench of his wanton nook around your prick, tighten it a bit more, and then in one fluid motion you reach around to grip him in both hands and give one last vicious thrust into him, burying yourself as far as you can go, and he goes rigid and spasms in your arms, tugging unintentionally at the ropes as he spills all the way down his legs, soaking you as well as him, convulsing with his mouth locked open in a silent scream, his eyes shut as tight as they go.

He shakes against you for a long, long time. You hold him as tight as you can, your cheek pressed against his neck, still buried inside him even as you just barely start to soften. When he finally begins relaxing you kiss him, humming and murmuring anything that comes to your head against his skin, into his ears. He doesn’t understand you, that much is clear, but you know firsthand that the sound of a kind, quiet voice alongside kind, quiet hands is the best thing you can have after being fucked like that.

When you judge him able to handle being let go you move immediately to untying his ropes; your fingers dart quick and clever over the complex knots, loosening each one equally so they lower him gradually, loosening in gradients. You catch him before he can fall, marveling at his boneless weight, and slide his limbs out of the loops. He twitches at the feeling of the rope sliding over his skin and you hush him, pressing gentling kisses to his face, his arms, his hair. You both desperately need a bath, and comfort food, and maybe even a movie, and then sleep. You know him, and you know what he needs, and you’d give him everything he ever wanted in a heartbeat.

You hoist him as gently as you can into your arms and leave the room with him warm against your chest, utterly wrecked and utterly trusting.


End file.
